


Space (What to Put In It)

by missmollyetc



Category: Southland
Genre: M/M, mention of violence against children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's three in the fucking morning, and John wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Space (What to Put In It)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пустое место (и чем его заполнить)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6277270) by [neun_geschichten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neun_geschichten/pseuds/neun_geschichten)



> Written for Dira, who wanted "John Cooper being awesome and/or Ben Sherman being a woobie."

Cut to the chase, John's been out of the corps for more fucking years than he'd like to count, and he still wakes up--if he's managed to fucking pass out beforehand--at Zero-Three-Fucking-Hundred because his inbred dicksmack of an ex-LT thought scrambling his unit for a gas mask drill come-rain-come-shine-come-now whenever he needed his rocks off was high-fucking-larious. After six months of false alarms at the same mothersucking hour of the night, John's internal clock had been pretty much permanently fucked. He has never met a superior officer who deserved a good hard fragging as much as Lieutenant William J. Gerrold of Butt Suck, Georgia and he hopes never to have the pleasure again.

That was back when he didn't have such a handle on his temper, though, when his uniform didn't hide a back brace and his hands didn't shake when he popped the top of his pill box, so the feeling was mutual. It is a fucking eight day wonder that he was never NJP'd right out of the Marines and straight to hell, thank you Sergeant Rubiniwitz.

But, he's up, and there are six cracks in the off-white paint on his ceiling. He can see the splash of pale blue paint where his roller brush hit the corner too hard, and Karen called him a fuckwit with real affection.

It sucks so much more now than it did when he was twenty and jerking off to the thought of Lieutenant Gerrold dancing on a minefield somewhere.

Next to him, soft skin pushes up to his thigh and rests there. He shifts his sightline to his left, then down, and it's...

John blinks. For some reason, he can only see this in pieces. Carefully, he presses his thigh into the bony knuckles underneath his leg. The loose fist shifts beneath him, the wrist jiggles. The arm is at an awkward angle. Sleep's a funny bastard, there's no way anyone could hold his arm like this without some serious pain if he were awake.

John has a big bed. Ben's never slept in it before.

There's a routine, John enjoys a good routine. He likes knowing how his nights will work themselves out. They go off shift, they get naked, they fuck, there's usually time for a shower and a beer before Ben jets off on his rich kid's big wheel back to wherever he goes when he's not with John.

But today there'd been sixteen garbage calls in a row--Ben's taken to counting them in his notepad--and then a coked out bitch threw her kid in the pool and didn't wait around to see if toddlers were born knowing how to doggy-paddle and then called missing persons for Lil' Tommy and that was it. Ben was oscar mike for the rest of shift without ever leaving the squad car. John just wanted a beer and a pill and to not be used to the sick shit like that.

But there was a routine and Ben got pissy if John went for the booze and the pills rather than his pert ass, so instead of ducking out on the kid in the locker room, John took Ben home with him. They got naked, they fucked...things got fuzzy for him a bit after that. John licks his lips and concentrates.

He can remember the taste of Ben's skin, sharp with soap, his sweat dripping down to coat John's lips where they sucked Ben's jawline. He'd felt his body flush hot at the taste, the slick electric spark of Ben's stubble on his tongue, the tight push into Ben's ass, Ben shouting up to the ceiling when he came, pounding himself raw on John's cock, and then...he thinks maybe he might have fallen asleep, which is fucking weird. John doesn't fall asleep next to people that often.

But he must have, and Ben must have crashed as well, since they're both naked and kind of filthy and in the same bed.

Ben is laying on his side, arm outstretched and hiding the thick, curving cock John's been sucking every other Friday and whenever the fuck he feels like for a couple of weeks now. He watches Ben twitch, wrinkles forming and reappearing on his forehead as he rolls onto his stomach. Ben yawns, pressing his chin into John's spare pillow. John wants to push his finger into Ben's mouth, slide down that wicked red tongue past those perfect teeth, and watch Ben Sherman suckle his middle finger like a whore.

Ben's hand moves away from John's thigh. John frowns. Ben yawns again, only this time his stupid baby blues blink open, like some kind of fucking...Ben.

He's not awake. If he was, John's pretty fucking sure Ben'd never squint at him like that, never wrinkle his nose and lick his lips and sigh like he's so tired and so comfortable that it'd be a sin to fuck him awake and then send him off to the showers.

God fucking damn it all to hell.

John smacks his hand over his own eyes and rubs like he can rub out the image of Ben spread out on John's own sheets, naked and sleepy and covered in dry spunk and KY.

Ben makes a noise, not even a word, and John moves his hand to cup the back of Ben's neck. He makes himself comfortable, left arm under his pillow, pillow jammed under his chin, and closes his eyes.

"Go back to sleep, boo," he mutters.

Ben makes another noise. John thinks it's agreement.


End file.
